Phoenix Rising
by TAFKAF
Summary: Fifth year and Voldemort certainly is back. However, Hogwarts alone provides enough fun for Harry, Hermione, and Ron, what with Quidditch, an annoying new girl, and a strange group of people just coming to light...
1. Prologue: Paying a Call

Disclaimer: All characters, spells, and items pertaining to Hogwarts or any places in Potterverse belong to J.K. Rowling. I am making no money off the writing of this fiction…so don't sue me…

A/N: Greetings, Terrans and otherwise. All right, I've got five months and about three days to finish this thing, so I'll be working my poor fingers into a frenzy typing this between play practice and band festivals and sundry other extracurricular things. Please understand that if I had it my way, I'd write it in a month and post it just that quickly…so I'm sorry. This work of fanfiction is my telling of the events in fifth year, especially involving Hermione Granger. It's mostly from Hermione's point of view as well (except for the prologue)…so, read on and enjoy.

***

PROLOGUE

On August eighteenth, 1995, at approximately five thirty-six in the morning, Lord Voldemort paid a call to a house.

He wasn't exactly welcome, but that was mostly all right—he wasn't welcome anywhere, except at his followers' homes—and even then it was a bit questionable.

It might be odd—the Dark Lord himself getting so deeply involved in what was really a routine operation. However—the bumbling fools were probably all still asleep at this early hour. Besides, no one in his ranks of Death Eaters possessed the finesse, the powers, the grace, of He-who-must-not-be-named, as the wizards referred to him.

Dawn broke slowly as Voldemort prowled around the house—a tiny cottage in a wizarding neighborhood in Inverness, containing exactly one occupant. He stayed a good distance away, walking the edges of the pocket-sized lawn and the side gardens, cloaked in an only slightly illegal spell of invisibility, inaudibility, and several other useful attachments. But who cared about the "slightly illegal" portion of the sentence—he was Voldemort, he'd survived everything, he was immortal. Laws were for those bound to die.

Finally, he zeroed in on what he wanted—that single occupant, currently still peacefully asleep on her sweet little bed. A twenty-two-year-old female pureblood, with a job at the Ministry as one of Fudge's own clerks. Quite helpful…

Quite suddenly, the patch of air that appeared to be empty filled with the tall, thin form of the most feared wizard on the planet—cursing softly and dropping to the ground. Stupid _spell_! Unreliable as always…Nott would have to be reminded of the quality Lord Voldemort demanded of the spells he asked for…

He shook his head. The doddering fool could wait. Meanwhile, his quarry's alarm clock was set to go off in twenty-three minutes—he needed to be out of Inverness and far away by then. Voldemort disappeared on the magic of a spell he invented on the spot—invisibility and vaporization, not quite as handy as the thieves' trick Nott had taught him, but still useful for his purposes.

With the vaporization, he walked straight through the wall of the female's bedroom. She lay there smiling in her sleep…how sickening…well, in a few hours she'd never think of smiling again. Voldemort placed another charm on her, one to slow time for her only—so she'd sleep one minute for every ten in the real progression of time. Another handy little charm—his own invention, of course—the most brilliant of spells were always his brainchildren…

Smiling himself, mouth curling cynically at the corners, Voldemort Apparated to the Riddle House—it was as good a headquarters as any, empty and decidedly haunted, according to the villagers—and now locked up for good with the loss of Frank Bryce the year before…

The female came with him, still in her state of extended sleep. She collapsed to the floor, no longer smiling , but it would take her about a minute in real time to realize she'd fallen, and much longer—so much longer—for her to actually figure out what had happened. And that her life would never be the same.

At approximately five forty-two in the morning on August eighteenth, 1995, Isabelle Yvonne Stone's first life ended.


	2. The Daily Prophet

Disclaimer: See Prologue

A/N: As I have said, if I could I'd write this in one huge block. However: Here we have the first chapter of Phoenix Rising, and it's actually from dear Hermione's point of view. Read on and enjoy. And don't forget to review…please…

***

CHAPTER ONE:

The Daily Prophet

Someone crashed down the stairs of the Burrow. The noise woke Hermione, who first thought it was a thunderstorm, then another batch of Wizard Wheezes exploding before they left the cauldron, and finally figuring out it was really just one of the Weasley brothers banging down the steps, intentionally making as much noise as possible.

"Hermione!" that someone whispered sharply right against her door. "Hermione, it's Harry, he's got one of those dreams again…"

This simple statement galvanized Hermione into jumping right out of bed (giving herself a massive case of head rush in the process, but that didn't matter), throwing on the nearest dressing gown to hand, and scurrying out the door of the guest room right next to Ginny's room. "Ron—that's you, isn't it? Is he awake?"

Ron shook his head, looking rather bewildered and dead-tired. "No—it's one of the ones where he's talking in his sleep—he yelled once and that's what woke me up—"

"Was it words?" Hermione demanded keenly. Harry's dreams had become more and more frequent now, less than two weeks before Hogwarts.

"Nah—wait—it might've been—I'm not sure—let me think."

Impatient, she waited while Ron thought.

"Yeah."

Silent seconds passed after his monosyllabic answer. Hermione groaned and asked, entirely too gently, "What did he say, then?"

It was too early for Ron to realize that he was treading on rather thin ground at the risk of Hermione losing her temper. "Erm…I dunno…"

"This is hopeless!" she said hotly, stamping her foot and glaring up at him. "Come _on_, Ron, think, this is_ important_…"

"Yeah, well so's sleep and I didn't get more'n a few hours," he spat, narrowing his eyes. "He said _'wake up, it's Him'_, and that's when I gave up on sleeping and actually having a relatively conscious day at Diagon Alley. Happy now?"

Hermione sighed. "Yes, I suppose…hmm…did he say anything else?"

Losing his patience entirely at the early-morning interrogation, Ron exploded. "I have no idea, I'd just woke up, d'you want me to set out a tape recorder so I catch absolutely _everything? Girls!_" With that highly original parting comment, he turned and thundered back up the stairs.

"_Boys!_" she whispered irritatedly at his back, pivoted, and went straight back into her room.

The day had dawned while she had been getting information out of Ron, and the room was bright and sunny. She'd been in it for two weeks now, after her parents had left for the dentists' convention in Dublin—after a nice bit of harrying, Hermione had gotten out of the week-long tie-up and been invited to the Burrow by Ginny, who seemed to have a knack for knowing just when to rescue someone out of an impossible situation.

Harry, too, had been rescued from the Dursleys a week after herself, from an absolutely awful summer. It seemed that Dudley had picked up a few friends who were even larger than Harry's cousin—which really said something—and even duller—which _really, really _said something—who liked to hang around and join Dudley in Harry Hunting. His aunt and uncle turned a blind eye—they'd taken to completely ignoring him—and Harry'd spent several weeks locked in his room of his own choice, with his homework and Hedwig. After that, finally, Ron invited him to the Burrow.

Then the dreams had started. Harry never remembered them—unless they were particularly odd enough so he'd wake up before they finished—but most of the time he'd end up talking in his sleep. They all had to do with the Dark Lord.

Hermione took an interest in them—seeing if they got any worse at times, or stronger before an attack (the Daily Prophet told of the small skirmishes and mini-raids as if half the world died each time He made an appearance) or if they had any other connections with the real world. After the first four days, she'd concluded they did.

She turned to her mirror now, at maybe six in the morning on August eighteenth. Just now she realized her nerves were tingling like they'd been doing more and more frequently around Ron—

"I don't have _time _for this!" Hermione muttered sharply to no one. "Absolute nonsense—I don't _like _Ron, he's one of the singularly most annoying human males on Earth—"

The mirror said sleepily, "Keep telling yourself that, dearie…"

"You shut up," she ordered her reflection (which promptly started sulking), marched back to her bed, and started to read _Nightmarish Warnings: When Your Dreams Get Real_.

***

"Hermione?" someone whispered—a girl's voice, two hours later—at her door. "It's Ginny—are you awake? Can I come in?"

"Yes, all right," Hermione answered, shutting the book in the middle of _Chapter Three: Methods of Study_. 

Quietly, Ginny opened the door and hurried in, fully-dressed, sliding a little in her socks. "What are you reading?" she asked. "By the way, good morning…"

"You too," Hermione replied, and handed her the book. Pretending to stagger under the weight of it, Ginny examined the cover, read the back, and pored over the inside of the cover.

"Is this about Harry?" asked Ginny, after a few silent moments had passed. "He's still getting those dreams, isn't he."

Hermione nodded. "Right—I wanted to find out whether they were actually warnings or if they're just nightmares of the common type—"

"Lord knows he's got enough fodder for them," Ginny muttered. "But—erm—the _Prophet_ came half an hour ago. I've got it in my room."

"Really? Did something happen?" Hermione demanded.

Ginny nodded, eyes rather wider than normal. "I'll get it." As quickly and quietly as she'd come, she scurried out and came back about thirty seconds later, holding the paper. She tossed it to Hermione, who caught it awkwardly and stared at the front page.

The headline read, in two-inch-high letters (blinking alternately gold and black, which attracted even _more _attention):

****

MINISTRY CLERK DISAPPEARED FROM HOME—

SPELL TRACES DISCOVERED BY INVESTIGATORS

INVERNESS—Early this morning, Isabelle Yvonne Stone, 22, a clerk for the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, disappeared from her cottage in the wizarding neighborhood in Inverness.

"I didn't see anythin', didn't hear anythin', but the dogs were goin' right crazy and that's what woke me up," said a neighbor, who wished his name to remain undisclosed. "The dogs ain't never been wrong about smellin'—somethin' fishy's happened, no doubts 'bout that."

A team of Ministry Magic Investigators returned from their examination of the scene with grim reports. Says Mary-Margaret Merrin, long-time expert, "We came up with traces of strong magic—we're talking serious genius stuff here, power like you've only dreamed of. Furthermore, and a bit nastily, the traces haven't mapped to any of the spells they'd usually map—it's stealth, invisibility and so on—which means probably invented _on the spot_. And we all know that's impossibly hard and quite nastily illegal."

"So," added Janus Jenkins, who was nearby, "that means we're working with a real expert here—let's see, brilliant, ingenious, quick-thinking, and criminal."

The last spell used was identified as an Apparation to Little Hangleton, a small village in southern England. This location seems apparently random, as no crime gangs have been related to it or anything else even slightly suspicious.

"It's got the Riddle House though, and four Muggles died in there all of a sudden," said Dottie Retswinkler, a venerable witch from the same village (now residing in Kent). "Fifty years back the three Riddles died, and last summer the caretaker kicked the bucket, and no one could tell why."

After Retswinkler described the autopsy reports to Ministry experts, William "Pinky" Fidget, one of the spell-identifying experts, said, "It certainly seems that [the four Muggles] died through _Avada Kedavra_…which is confusing at best, because that means a wizard did it, and who'd be bothered with a handful of old Muggles?"

As any other evidence still lacks confirmation or investigation, there's nothing else to add to this case. The _Daily Prophet_ will continue reporting.

"What d'you think?" Ginny asked.

Hermione thought for a long time before she spoke. "I'm not certain. Is Harry awake?"

The younger girl shrugged. "No telling. Ron's still dead to the world, so probably not."

"All right. I'll talk to him when he gets up." Hermione looked once more at the newspaper article, bit her lip, and shook her head. "It's important, though. Thanks, Ginny."

She nodded. "Sure. I better take this back to the kitchen—Dad will be wondering—" Ginny picked up the paper and left, crashing down the three sets of stairs to the first level.

Maybe it's hereditary, Hermione thought, and opened up the book again.

Barely a minute later, more thundering down stairs. She sighed and set down the book as Ron almost shouted, still running, "Breakfast! Come on!"

"In a minute!" she returned irritatedly, and started finding socks.

About five minutes later, she ran down the stairs, making about as much noise as both Ginny and Ron. Well—

"Fred, stop stomping around like an elephant and—" Mrs. Weasley screamed from the kitchen, and started rather when she saw who it was. "Oh, Hermione—I'm sorry, dear—"

"It's all right," Hermione said, a bit embarrassed, and slid into her seat next to Ginny a little quicker than normal, face burning.

Ron and Ginny grinned slightly maliciously. "Yeah, Fred…" Ron muttered.

"Oh, shut up," Hermione hissed. "Where is everyone?"

Ginny answered, "Fred and George are both out for the count and so is Harry. Percy's at work, and so is Dad, and Bill's in Egypt and Charlie's in Romania—I think that's everyone."

"You forgot us."

"Right," she said, taking Ron's slightly teasing comment in stride. "And we're here, and Mum's cooking breakfast. _That's _everyone."

Quite suddenly, Percy appeared in the kitchen.

"All right, never mind—" Ginny started, but stopped when she saw her older brother's face. Percy looked rather confused—miserable, like someone had died, but also proud, like he'd just caught the murderer.

"Percy!" Mrs. Weasley said shrilly as Ron and Hermione twisted in their chairs to have a look. "What are you doing home? I thought you were at work—oh, dear, what's wrong?"

Getting quickly to the point, Percy said shortly, "Minister gave all clerks and secretaries the morning off because Isabelle Stone's missing. Dad will be home soon." He paused, staring at his feet, and then added, "I've been promoted until she's found."

"Really?" said Ginny in a rather awed tone. Hermione thought briefly that it really wouldn't be that flattering to have your little sister _amazed _that you've gotten a promotion… "Where are you now?"

"Clerk to the Minister," Percy answered, unable to keep a little of the smug pride out of his tone. "Mr. Yeardley told him I was excellent on shorthand and reliable with everything. I'll be getting fifty Sickles an hour, starting at noon today."

"Excellent!" said Ginny.

"Yeah, congratulations, Perce," Ron said.

"That's really good," Hermione added.

Two more sets of thundering footsteps, and a second later Fred and George careened into the kitchen and skidded to exaggerated stops. "Percy!"

"What are you doing here?"

"Skiving off work?"

"Been—" Fred glanced at George, George glanced at Fred, and they both gasped. "_Fired?_"

"No," said Percy coldly. "You haven't seen the _Prophet_ yet, I presume."

George asked, "Why? Did something bad happen?"  
Fred pretended to half-faint. "Zonko's is closing!"

Ginny sighed and threw the paper at them. "Shut up, the both of you, and take a look at the front page."

Fred caught the paper easily and unfolded it, saying as he did, "Ah, no, Zonko's really _did_—" Then George hit him across the stomach and they both started reading.

"Bloody—"

"That's really— so what, did they close the Ministry?" George asked.

Percy nodded. "I'll go back after lunch."

"He's been promoted to a clerk for the Minister!" Mrs. Weasley cried, seemingly in a flurry of joy for her third-eldest.

"Brilliant, Percy," Fred said, looking up quickly from the article and going back to it almost immediately.

"Yeah, really good," added George absently, not even glancing up.

Mrs. Weasley waited a beat—maybe her dear sons would show a _little _more enthusiasm for their brother—and then said brightly, "Well, Percy, I suppose you can eat another breakfast! We'll be going off to Diagon Alley right after lunch, so until then you're free to stay here."

"Yes, thanks, Mum…"

Mr. Weasley appeared suddenly, looking haggard.

"Hi, Dad," Fred and George said simultaneously, still reading the article. Fred finished it first and went on, "Nasty business about Stone. Got any news about her?"  
"Yeah," said George, tossing the paper neatly back to the table. "Did either of you work with her?"

"No news," Mr. Weasley said to Fred. "And no. I've got to go back soon—just dropped in for a minute—wanted to say that Investigation did more analysis on the magic-traces and found they're from a thirteen-and-a-half-inch yew wand with a phoenix feather."

Harry showed up in the doorway just then, and blanched.

"Oh, good morning, Harry dear!" Mrs. Weasley almost sang. "But Arthur, what's the wand type have to do with anything?"  
Slowly, and looking rather warily at Mr. Weasley, Harry asked, "Sir, could you repeat that?"

"Thirteen-and-a-half-inch, yew, phoenix feather. Why?" Not waiting for an answer, Mr. Weasley turned to his wife. "And Molly, now that they know the wand type they can go to the wand experts, who keep records of these things—Ollivander especially. Cross-reference them, narrow down the suspects…now, I've got to go back to work."

He disappeared with a slight popping noise as Harry edged to his seat across from Hermione, looking absolutely petrified.

"What happened?" he mouthed at Ron, who handed him the paper and glanced at him worriedly.

Harry looked at the headline alone and then hurled the paper across the table. Hermione just managed to catch it and looked at him carefully. "What was so important about the wand, Harry?" she asked in an undertone as Mrs. Weasley started setting down plates.

He shook his head. "Later."

Percy took a seat at the foot of the table. An awkward silence descended—for some reason—and no one spoke for several minutes.

"Ginny," Harry said suddenly, "give me the paper again."

She started, eyes widening and ears—Weasley ears—going very slightly pink. Then, nonchalantly, she slid the paper across the smooth surface of the table and smiled a little when he caught it. Hermione grinned at her hands, carefully not looking up.

Silence again.

"She worked with me, you know," said Percy, apparently at random. "Nicer girl you couldn't find."

"Penelope wouldn't like to hear you say that…" said Ron, grinning a little.

Percy went red up to his eyebrows, and was just saved by Mrs. Weasley coming in with waffles and sausage.

***

After fifteen minutes of forks chinking against ceramic, Ron pushed his chair back, scraping against the floor loudly. Harry followed suit almost immediately. Hermione stood a little more quietly, and they left the kitchen, marching out in silence.

As soon as they hit the stairs, all three started running, all the way up seven flights and through the door at the top into Ron's room. They stood around a bit, catching their breaths, and then Hermione demanded, "What's so important about the wand, Harry?"

Harry, dropping to sit on his camp bed, said shortly, "It's Voldemort's wand, that's what."

Ron's jaw dropped, and Hermione stared. In a very, very small voice, she asked, "H—how d'you know?"  
"Mr. Ollivander told me—when I got my wand—said that he remembered every wand he'd ever sold."

"He did that with me, too," Ron said.

"And me."

Angrily, Harry said, "I wasn't finished! He told me about the wand and the phoenix feather in it, and he said the wand's brother gave me—" Rather than finishing his sentence, he gestured at his forehead. "Said 'Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious how these things happen…' and then more stuff about how odd it was."

"Thirteen-and-a-half inches, yew, phoenix feather," Hermione recited, thinking hard. "So he kidnapped Isabelle Stone…but what would he want with her?"

"Remember, she was a clerk for the Minister?" said Harry.

Ron asked, "What'd you do, memorize the article?"

Harry just glared, and Ron backed off.

"So he kidnapped Stone for information," said Hermione, ignoring both of them. Ron could get in his sarcasm another time, but this was _serious_. "And he'll know all the Ministry's plans."

Rubbing his face tiredly, Harry said, "I'll have to tell your dad when he gets back—he has to know, and then he'll tell Fudge—"

"—who will of course believe all of it, as he thinks you're a gibbering madman," Ron muttered. "You still got Skeeter in her jar, Hermione?"  
Hermione stared up at the ceiling—where several new Cannons posters waved at her—and thought, mentally going through the contents of her bureau. "Yes…she's around somewhere."

Harry, who'd gone stony immediately after Ron's not-so-innocent statement, straightened suddenly and wiped the Neanderthal-esque look off his face. "What d'you say we let her go in the garden and get a gnome to eat her?"

"Yeah, they like beetles…" said Ron thoughtfully. "Excellent idea, Harry, really…"

Even while she knew they were just kidding, Hermione rearranged her face into a horrified expression and left. As soon as she was in her room, she found the jar and stared in at the beetle.

It glared back at her and wiggled its antennae threateningly. Really, it was hard to guess that this slightly overlarge_ insect_ had managed to mess up their fourth year so badly.

"Maybe I _will_ feed you to a gnome," she said to Rita Skeeter, special correspondent, and rather enjoyed it when the beetle started backing away and fell off the twig. When it got stuck on its back, though, Hermione twitched the jar just enough so it tipped right-way-up again. Rita twitched her antennae irritatedly and then scuttled under her leaf.

Hermione looked at the jar for another three minutes, then slid it back in her top drawer and went out to help Ginny wash the dishes.

***

A/N: Oh, I like this one! Hope you did too…please tell me in a review, hint-hint…er, yeah…

~Flamewing


	3. General Confusion

A/N: There is a reason for this thing being late…namely that it's been Hell Week (_Production Week _for non-theatrical types) for my school musical and I've been at school for forty-five hours in the past three days. But excuses are futile. Look. A new chapter. Read and enjoy…please.

***

CHAPTER TWO  
General Confusion

Hermione, for the first time in her life, suffered the indignity of being spat out of a fireplace to a sooty hearth, covered in a light film of ash. Spitting and coughing, she didn't see who helped her up until she finished hacking up what felt like a good half of her lung content.

"You all right?" said her helper roughly. Of _course _it would be Ron…

She went red as she answered. "Yes, I'll be fine."

A small figure recognizable as Ginny hurried over with a clothes brush. "Oh, it was your first time on Floo! Sorry, Hermione, it's rough on some people…"

Hermione just shook her head and cleared her throat a few times as Mrs. Weasley Apparated into the Leaky Cauldron's front parlor, where the fireplace was located.

"Everyone here?"

"Yeah, Mum," answered what sounded like Fred from one of the corners. "All present and accounted for."

About then Hermione managed to stand up straight and open her eyes. Thank God, only the Weasleys and Harry were in the parlor, and they knew her well enough that coughing attacks didn't matter. Still…_Ron_…

"Good—no one lost down Knockturn Alley…oh dear," Mrs. Weasley said suddenly, noticing her for the first time. "Hermione, are you all right?"

Suddenly the hand on her arm disappeared and she saw by peripheral vision Ron stepping backwards, looking decidedly red around the ears, and backing into a coat rack. Mrs. Weasley went into extremely-motherly-hen, while the others, thankfully, pretended nothing had happened.

"Yes, Mrs. Weasley, I'll be fine in a moment…"

"It was her first time using Floo powder," Ginny supplied helpfully. "Hermione'll be all right, won't you?"

Thank God for relatively sensible people, Hermione thought as she nodded. "Exactly. I'm all right now."

That was the end of that as Mrs. Weasley gave her one last slightly concerned look and then said loudly to everyone, "We'll be going along, then!"

A mass exodus occurred out of the parlor and to the main pub, while Ron untangled himself from the coat rack, blushing furiously.

***

Half an hour later the group of seven had dwindled to three. Ginny and Mrs. Weasley had gone off to get books, and Fred and George caught up with Lee Jordan, leaving Harry, Hermione, and Ron to wander around Diagon Alley looking for something to do. They'd already picked up books and potions ingredients, and now…?

"So now what?" Ron asked.

Harry and Hermione both shrugged.

They walked a bit more, but stopped suddenly. A massive crowd had formed around Quality Quidditch Supplies.

"What's going on?" Harry started to say, and a boy in front of them turned. He was probably a seventh-year, but the look on his face could have matched any little kid on his birthday.

"New broom out—the Firebolt Two! It's got loads of new features…"

"Really?" And they were both lost, listening eagerly as the seventh-year told them about the broom.

Hermione waited for five seconds. Exactly. Then she turned on one heel and walked away. But if they were so absolutely obsessed with some new thing to race around and break their necks on, it was their fault, and she could go pick out new dress robes.

Madam Malkin's shop actually did have a few patrons—mostly first-years, and two girls of her age. She didn't know the first, but the girl next to her was Lavender Brown.

Lavender caught sight of her before she could hide. "Hi, Hermione!" she bubbled cheerfully, waving her over. "Have you met Lizzie yet?"

Sighing quietly, Hermione went over, arranging her face into what she hoped looked something like a smile. "Hello, Lavender. Lizzie, I guess?"

The other girl looked at her and grinned. She looked nice enough—a bit taller than Lavender (but then, everyone was), honey-colored curls, and a spatter of freckles over her nose. "Hey. It's Elizabeth Thomas, but everyone calls me Lizzie."

She definitely had an accent, as well. "I'm Hermione Granger. Are you from America?"

Lizzie nodded, and then said a bit gushingly, "Oh, yes. I was born there and lived in Boston, Massachusetts, just long enough to pick up the accent and a whole lot of slang and since then we've been traveling. My dad's in the Department of Mysteries for the International Confederation of Wizards."

"Oh." For one of the first times in her life, Hermione had no idea what to say, and the three girls stood in awkward silence until Lavender said, "Lizzie's in Scotland this year, though, and she's going to Hogwarts! And in fifth year!"

Hermione felt like she was drowning in exclamation points. "That's great," she said. "I've got to go get fitted for robes, though…see you, Lizzie. Bye, Lavender." A little more quickly than was strictly polite, she hurried to one of the clerks and asked for a fitting.

Annoyingly, though, Lizzie hopped up on the stool next to her. "Hey, Lavender saw one of her friends and they're off. You're Hermione?"

"Yes," Hermione said, resigning herself to a dull ten minutes or so.

"Interesting name."

Hermione didn't say anything, and the silence went a bit cold.

"Of course," said Lizzie, as if she were nervous and trying to hide it by being offhand, "I always thought it was a little boring talking about names. What's Hogwarts like?"

Startled by the sudden topic change, Hermione said, "Oh, it's excellent. Really beautiful, and the classes are really interesting. The library's got about a million books and Gryffindor has the best school Quidditch team in Europe, in my opinion."

"That's one thing I don't get, is about the houses and all that," Lizzie said quickly, trying to fill the air with words.

"Well, the school's split into four parts, they're Houses, and the students in each House are picked because of certain qualities. There's a Sorting Hat that tells you where you go."

"I see," said Lizzie, plainly not. "And you said something about a library?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes, it's the best collection of books I've ever seen. There's all kinds of books in there, history and spellbooks and geography."

Lizzie grinned at her again, almost hopefully. "That's great. I love books."

"That's you done," the clerk said suddenly, startling them both. "Your robes will be finished in about five minutes…is there anything else?"  
"No…well, dress robes."

The clerk, a youngish lady of maybe twenty-five, with blond hair plastered to her head in something of a helmet, led her off to the racks, leaving Lizzie behind on the stool with another attendant. Hermione gave her one smile and then followed the clerk again.

Ten minutes after that, she left with a bag holding her school robes and her new dress robes. Immediately there were Harry and Ron, walking from the direction of Quality Quidditch Supplies with looks of disgust on their faces.

"I don't get it—it doesn't go any faster than the first one," Harry was saying.

"And all the special features—a footrest? You'd pay an extra fifty Galleons for one measly bar of metal—hey, Hermione."

She avoided looking superior, and pretended she hadn't heard any of the past exchange. "Did you see the broom?"

They nodded. "Not that great," said Ron. "The Firebolt's excellent enough."

After a sort of ambivalent sound that could have meant anything, Hermione informed them, "There's a new girl in our year, Elizabeth Thomas. I just met her in Madam Malkin's."

"And?"

Hermione shrugged. "She's a Lavender clone with an American accent."

"Oh," Ron said, wincing. "That's bad."

"Yeah," said Harry. They stood quiet for a second, thinking about it.

"So, any bets on who our Defense teacher's going to be this year?" asked Ron, and they started walking again, talking about anything and not really caring what was said. It was enough to be together in the summer, surrounded by wizards.

***

They were back at the Burrow by three that afternoon, carrying two or three bags each and, for the most part, successful (Fred hadn't found the right type of bee sting for use in one of his potions—meaning a new Wizard Wheeze was in the works). There was enough time before dinner for a Quidditch scrimmage, which translated to "re-teaching Hermione how to fly a broomstick".

_Well, at least they're amused,_ she thought vindictively as they started walking towards the Burrow again, broomsticks over their shoulders. Fred and George were nearly falling on the ground laughing. Only Ginny walked without some kind of evil grin on her face.

"Hermione, it's all right, really," she muttered. "You never fell, right?"

"Because I couldn't get up enough momentum to lose my balance, but whatever you say," Hermione whispered sarcastically. "I'd rather watch."

Ginny gave her a pleading look. "But then we don't have an even number!"

By then, though, they'd returned to the outer shed (more of a raggedy lean-to) and all the brooms were propped up inside it. Mrs. Weasley called, "Hurry it up, your father's home!"

A mass exodus to the kitchen occurred.

"Dad! Any news about the missing person?" Ron demanded.

Mr. Weasley looked exhausted. "No," he said, shut his mouth, and stayed quiet.

After a minute, Ginny asked timidly, "Where's Percy?"

"He's coming."

"Good," said George, inexplicably. He was spared questions, though, by Percy appearing about a second after his statement. He looked irritated.

"—weaselly little worm doesn't start working, I'm going to cut his thumbs off with a…" Suddenly he noticed how many odd looks he was getting from his siblings and parents. "Sorry, Mum, Dad. A coworker. That's all. When's dinner?"

Mrs. Weasley took his uncharacteristic outburst in stride and said, "Right now."

The meal was a bit quieter than usual. Fred and George stayed mostly silent, and Ginny said nothing at all. Percy and Mr. Weasley, to make up for the lack of talking, spoke loudly and enthusiastically about work.

Hermione mouthed at Harry and Ron to eat fast. A little bewildered, they did, but then realized midway through bites of potato what she'd been getting at, and the three bolted the rest of their dinners and left quickly.

"I thought you'd never catch on, honestly," she said in an undertone while they were marching up the stairs.

"Well—"

Ron challenged, "So what was so important that we had to catch on?"

At a loss, Hermione demanded after a few seconds, "Did you actually want to stay in there?"  
He thought about it. "Well, no."

"Exactly. Harry—"

Harry glanced at her. "What?"

"You should tell Mr. Weasley about the wand."

"I know." He paused, and then asked, "Anyone want a game of chess?"

Ron volunteered, as Harry looked a bit…well, withdrawn was the best word for it, quiet and pale, Hermione thought. She watched as they set up the chessboard in Ron's room and started a game.

***

The last week of summer passed in a sort of whirl of Quidditch scrimmages (Hermione actually managed to go fast enough to make a noticeable difference in the angle of her ponytail to her head), sunshine, and no-news-is-bad-news. Nothing about Isabel Stone's kidnapping had been discovered, and as Mr. Ollivander was lost somewhere in the Black Forest, attempting to catch another unicorn for wand centers until September the tenth, he couldn't be reached. The other European wandmakers were surprised that yew and phoenix feather could even be mixed in a wand without the whole laboratory going up in a spectacular fireworks display.

So, no news, and Hermione re-learned flying. All in all, a relatively good week.

The sun, though, had other ideas on September the first, and decided to hide behind a sky full of clouds that for the past week had been white and fluffy and only now went dark and threatening. Hermione woke up to a sky the color of pencil lead and a heavy, wet breeze blowing through the screen on the window.

"Hermione!"

Ron again.

With a strange sense of deja vu, she pulled on her dressing gown and went into the hallway. "What?"

"Harry's dreaming again. And shut up, I'll tell you," Ron said quickly, just before she started talking, and Hermione closed her mouth. "He's talking, but the only thing I understood was _'This place again?' _and _'the old Muggle'_ and the rest was gibberish."

Hermione nodded. "Thank you. I guess—just ask him about it when he wakes up."

"Yeah."

They stood there, looking at each other. Suddenly thunder rumbled outside, and both of them jumped a bit.

"It'll be just like last year," Hermione said.

"Hope the firsties don't drown," said Ron, grinning.

She smiled back and went back into her room, and only then let herself go red.

***

A/N: Tell me what you think. I need opinions, hopefully constructive…and for readers of Order of the Phoenix, how does it compare? And if flames be your medium, congratulations and please tell me why you possess such unresolved feelings of anger towards my harmless little story. Counseling, to resolve your anger, will involve aluminum baseball bats and an angry Puffskein.

~Flamewing, who wishes you a nice day


	4. Pixies and Mayhem

A/N: Back again, surprisingly early. Hello and welcome. Have fun on your stay. Whatever.

***

Hermione, fully dressed at six-thirty, found Rita's jar in her trunk, just before breakfast. Carrying it like a grenade, she left her room and hurried down three flights of stairs, then through the kitchen and out the back door.

It wasn't raining yet, though the air had the consistency of mud. Heavy, warm mud at that. Hermione found it a bit hard to breathe, and resolved to make this fast.

By the time she reached the pond, Skeeter had awakened and had her little buggy face pressed up against the side of the glass. If it was even possible, Hermione would have said the beetle looked profoundly hopeful.

Skeeter twitched her antennae at Hermione, who didn't respond and sat by the edge of the green, froggy pond. "Now look, Rita. Remember what I told you? Keep your quill to yourself for a year and then you're free. If I find a single untruth by you in the Daily Prophet, I'm going to the Ministry." She shook the jar for emphasis. "I'd suggest flying as soon as you're out. The frogs are awake, and they look hungry, don't you agree?"

She knew it was mean, but Hermione couldn't resist. Bringing the jar a bit too close to the water for comfort, she could barely avoid breaking into laughter when Rita started scrambling over and hugging her leaf, seeing a few bulbous yellow eyes.

In a quick movement Hermione unscrewed the top of the jar and let the leaf and the twig fall into the pond. Rita scrabbled frantically, then took to wing and zizzed free of her glass prison. Flying straight at Hermione, buzzing loudly and irritatedly, the one-time reporter turned at the last possible second and soared away.

Hermione shrugged, recapped the jar, and ran back inside, just escaping the first few raindrops.

Mrs. Weasley jumped as Hermione came in and closed the door. "Oh, dear, you gave me a fright! Breakfast is in ten minutes…go see if Ginny's awake, would you?"

"Of course," Hermione said. "Good morning." She left the room quickly and replaced the jar in her trunk, then knocked at Ginny's door.

"G'way'm'_tired_…" came the sleepy moan. Then, "T'day's H'gw'rts, i'n't?"

"Wake up," Hermione said loudly, walking in. "Come on, Ginny, yes, today's Hogwarts."

Ginny groaned. "Crud." Then she sat up, grabbed a comb, and started attacking her tangled hair, which floated around her head in a kind of nimbus. "Close the door, would you? And give me a hand with this mess, please, Hermione?"

Grinning only slightly, Hermione pushed the door shut and helped Ginny with her hair. "Breakfast's in ten minutes, by the way."

"Okay…I'll be breathing by then…where's my watch?" Ginny cast around on her bedside table, tossing books, hair ties, and various other bits of her life in a pile on the bed, then found her watch on her wrist. "God, it's too early…_ow!_"

Hermione had hit a snarl based right at the top of her friend's head. Ginny snatched the comb out of her hand and started figuring it out herself. "You go on," she told Hermione, as Mrs. Weasley yelled that breakfast was ready. "I'll resign myself to being late."

Shrugging again, Hermione left and went in the general direction of the kitchen, stopping several times on the stairs to avoid being run over by, in quick succession, George, Harry, Mr. Weasley, Ron, and lastly Fred, who barely avoided tripping over Crookshanks and managed to jump down the last seven stairs, landing in a crouch right in front of the kitchen door. Then Hermione had to sit and cuddle Crookshanks, who was a bit miffed at having six or so feet of male human vaulting over him after what appeared to be a bad hunting night.

Finally she was allowed to go downstairs without a cat around her ankles or someone a foot behind her trying to break his neck.

"…news yet?" George was asking Mr. Weasley eagerly.

"Give me some time to look and I'll tell you," Mr. Weasley returned calmly, examining the front page of the Daily Prophet. He took a sip of tea—and choked on it as his eyes found an article midway down the page.

"Dad!"

He just pointed. Hurrying over, Hermione read the headline over Ron's shoulder as he started reading it aloud. "'Kidnapped Ministry worker discovered unconscious outside Little Hangleton….' 'At four twenty-six the morning of the first of September, Ministry clerk Isabelle Stone was found lying unconscious just outside of the Southern England village of Little Hangleton. The twenty-two-year-old woman appeared to be battling the Imperius Curse, one of the three Unforgivables…'"

"_Damn,_" Fred said vehemently.

Mrs. Weasley glared at him. "I'll have none of that language, young man—but is she all right?"

Ron said vaguely, "Quiet, Mum, I'm getting to that part. 'Ms. Stone is in stable condition at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, but your Daily Prophet reporter was told she was not up to an interview.'…So she's okay!"

"Is there anything about the wand or the kidnapper?" Harry demanded tensely.

By then Mr. Weasley had managed to swallow his tea. "No, I looked. The Ministry starts going to smaller wand experts today…they should really get this all on record, it's such a bother to go chasing after these people who're all wasting time trying to catch unicorns…maybe I'll start a petition…"

_And Fudge will torch it before he looks at it, but at least you can try, _Hermione thought, sliding into her seat.

Ginny made her appearance then and everything had to be explained again. Gradually, though, as they all looked away from the paper and started eating, the room relaxed and they started talking about normal things.

"How are we getting into the station?" Ginny asked after she'd woken up a bit more over some toast. The little matters—like how on Earth they'd get to the train—were usually left to the last minute. The last second of the last minute, to be exact. No one knew ahead of time, but every one of them dearly hoped Mr. Weasley would say _Ministry car_. That time, in Harry, Hermione, and Ron's third year, had been by far the best.

Mr. Weasley poured himself more tea as he said, "I managed to get a few cars. Ministry, of course…decided to hire early because of the mess last year…"

"And a good thing, isn't it?" Mrs. Weasley chimed in, throwing a glance out the window. Heavy drops of rain splattered it and ran down the glass almost sluggishly, and thunder rumbled ominously just after her statement. "It'll be pitching buckets by the time you're at Hogwarts—"

_Of course. It's not like we've ever actually had a good day for the first day of term, _Hermione thought. _That'd just ruin the experience._

"Speaking of that," said Mr. Weasley, looking at the clock, whose hands hovered between _Time to leave _and _You're early (for once)_, "I told them to be here by eight-thirty. Better make sure you're packed."

Fred and George, who'd been finished for nearly five minutes, jumped up and left, walking in step.

"Where's Percy?" Ron asked suddenly, mouth full of toast and marmalade. "'E's never late…"

Mrs. Weasley answered, sounding strained though she smiled cheerfully, "Well, he deserves a bit of a lie-in…he's been working overtime of late, poor boy…"

Exactly then, Percy Apparated into the kitchen. All of them jumped and Ginny just caught her glass of milk before it tipped. "Is breakfast ready?" he asked politely. "Good morning, Mum, I'm running late…why'd you let me sleep in? My alarm clock malfunctioned—" and here Percy looked decidedly irked, that some dumb machine had _dared _to make him ten minutes late—"and I've got a _very _busy day planned at the office…"

He seemed proud. Hermione suppressed a shudder. As Percy started going into a rundown of his schedule, she caught Ron's eye and jerked her head towards the door. He nudged Harry, and, all three of them snitching one last piece of toast, they muttered excuses and left the kitchen.

"I let Rita out," Hermione said without preamble, as soon as they were out of earshot.

Harry asked hopefully, "I wouldn't suppose a gnome ate her?"

"No," she returned frostily. "However, keeping that wish in mind, I pretended to drop her in the frog pond."

"Almost as good," he said, shrugging, as Ron started to laugh.

"What?" Hermione demanded, glaring.

Ron shook his head, laughing too hard to talk. When he'd recovered enough to speak, he said, "I just had a vision of you, sitting next to the frog pond, holding Rita over the pond and giving her a good lecture…"

Feeling herself go red, Hermione was infinitely glad her room was right there. "Right, that's funny, ha-ha. Now if you'd excuse me." Before either of them could say anything, she opened the door, slid through, and closed it behind her.

If Ron didn't stop teasing her, she'd hit him with a Confusion Charm, Hermione promised herself. He wouldn't be able to tie his own shoes for a week or four. Leaning her head on the door, she was hit with the sudden feeling that she was just pretending to be annoyed.

"Oh, none of that nonsense!" she cried, exasperated, and stamped flat-footed over to her mirror. "You tell me," she shot at her reflection. "Ron's an annoying—annoying—"

For once her bewildered reflection was helpful. "Big clumsy annoying git?"

"Yes, exactly. Thank you." Hermione turned away and started checking her trunk for the fourth time since the night before. She'd memorized everything's exact position—the books in the cauldron, the clothes in neatly-folded piles, her spare pair of sneakers and her dress shoes in their own shoeboxes, and the box of miscellaneous odds and ends. The entire trunk—the dear old trunk, carved with her initials just below the lock—was absolutely immaculate. The Weasley boys would be sickened.

And that was just too bad. Hermione pushed the lid down and locked the trunk again with a final-sounding, satisfying _clack_, slid her wand into one pocket, checked the bag of books she'd bring on the train, and put her cloak in the bag as an afterthought. It looked like she'd need it by the time the train stopped in Hogsmeade.

Five minutes later, she was the only one by a far cry who was actually ready for the cabs in ten minutes. Fred and George were making systematic checks through all the rooms—"Are you _sure _you don't have any room left in your trunk, Hermione? It's just a bag of Dungbombs…they're even spelled not to activate…"

George was getting so frantic that he offered to pay rent. "Five Galleons and I'll buy something for you off the cart," he begged.

_All right, this is getting really desparate. _"What?" Hermione said, pretending to be shocked. "Did I actually hear a Weasley twin _offering money_?"

He just looked at her pleadingly.

"Fine," she said, and pulled a few more books out of her cauldron to put in her bag. "Put them right there."

"Thanks, Hermione…you're a lifesaver…"

"And it's all right about the money. I don't need it," she said, which was the absolute truth.

George immediately went normal. "Okay. Got any room for Hiccup Sweets?"

"No."

He shrugged. "All right—I'll go bribe Ginny—thanks—" And then he left.

"What's he trying to pack, an entire joke shop?" Hermione demanded of her empty room. The mirror sneezed in response.

And then, besides Fred and George trying to rent space in other people's trunks, Ron had misplaced his bag of new spellbooks, Harry couldn't find the handle polish for his Broomstick Servicing Kit (a birthday present from Hermione before third year) and Ginny only just then discovered that her three favorite hair clips were missing.

Hermione became a sort of gopher for the three of them, finding—after a lot of confused searching—the spellbooks under a pile of Martin Miggs comics, the handle polish in the linen closet, and Ginny's hair clips in a sort of stash that Crookshanks had been keeping under the kitchen sink.

"Is ANYONE ready?" Mr. Weasley roared at eight twenty-seven and thirteen seconds. "Besides Hermione?"

The reply—a collective, perfectly timed "_NO!_" almost knocked him down the stairs.

"The cabs are here!" he yelled hopelessly two minutes and forty-seven seconds later. "Hurry, would you _please_…"

Finally, Ginny hurried as fast as she could down the stairs, lugging her trunk with difficulty and carrying a school bag slung over her back. Slowly, over the course of the next five minutes, the four boys trickled down the stairs, heaving overstuffed trunks and cages containing, in Harry's case, a resigned Hedwig who hooted sleepily, and in Ron's case, Pig, who…well…anyway.

The drivers, who looked rather like Hedwig except a bit more energetic, helped them drag the trunks out to the two waiting dark green cars. Hermione, remembering the cabs the year before, kept her arms clamped around Crookshanks (after weeding him out of his hiding place under the kitchen sink for the last time).

And finally—finally—the seven of them piled into the cars—then piled back out again so Mrs. Weasley could dispense hugs, farewells, and warnings. "And listen, boys, it's your last year, don't mess it up too badly, would you?" she said shrilly.

Fred said contritely, "We'll try, Mum."

"And Hermione dear," she said next, and Hermione squirmed, "don't study too hard. Give some of your habits to Ron here, if you could." She was joking, but still. For the exasperated umpteenth time Hermione felt her face go hot, and knew she went bright red.

Of course, Ron went pink around the ears at that, too, so she wasn't alone. After one last hug from Mrs. Weasley, she was allowed to retreat to one of the cars.

After ages, the cars started up. Ron was next to her and Harry on his other side, with Mr. Weasley in the front, and they could just see Ginny being sandwiched between Fred and George in the other car.

They reached the station at ten-thirty, which gave them quite enough time for Mr. Weasley to become thoroughly overexcited at the sight of a parking meter. Harry pulled him away explaining the process carefully as the seven found carts and started navigating Kings' Cross, which was crowded despite the weather.

Right between nine and ten was just as crowded, but it was a different kind of crowd. In the heavy, warm rain, Hermione could just make out crowds of sodden Hogwarts students pushing carts and carrying caged owls and cats. "What's going on?" she asked one of them—who turned out to be Mandy Brocklehurst, a Ravenclaw in their year.

"It's something with the platform, or the train," she said eagerly. "They're not letting us through yet because of—"

A sixth-year Hufflepuff nearby interrupted. "Mechanical difficulties, and for God's sake it's a magic train! I ask you, how can a magic train spelled for endurance and against problems experience _mechanical difficulties?_"

Several scared kids huddled together, whispering to each other…the firsties, bonding quickly in the face of unprecedented problems.

"No idea," Harry told the sixth-year. "I know," he said quietly to Ron and Hermione. "Someone cursed it."

"That's the obvious answer," Hermione said worriedly, keeping her voice down, "but I could swear I remembered reading somewhere something about how the train's covered by a sort of force field against malevolent spells…"

Ron muttered, "Yeah, then explain our little hex-happy vendetta with Malfoy on the last day of term."

"I mean against the train itself," Hermione specified. "There's no spell strong enough for what you're talking about."

And, speak of the devil, Malfoy made his appearance then, carrying his scornful-looking eagle owl in a large brass cage and looking irritated.

Fortunately, he didn't spot them through the rain.

"You know he'll never forgive us for that one," Hermione whispered.

"You wanted him to?" Ron demanded, and "Of course not," Harry said.

"What's going on?" asked Colin Creevey, who'd just arrived with his little brother Dennis, now going into second year. "What's going—hiya, Harry!"

Harry said automatically, "Hullo, Colin." He shut his mouth with an almost audible snap, looking stubborn.

"Really, what's the holdup?" Mr. Weasley said loudly. "You can't have all forgotten how to get through—"

"It won't _let _us, sir," yelled an earnest-looking and very small Ravenclaw third-year. "I tried and I sort of bounced…"

Somehow this struck Hermione as hilarious and she burst out laughing.

Mr. Weasley gave her a slightly annoyed look as he considered the milling crowd of underage wizards—nearly a hundred of them. Seeming to make a decision, he forced his way through to the barrier and leaned against it. And there he stayed, leaning against the barrier, and nothing moved.

He stared at it, tapped it with his wand, and tried again. Nothing. Meanwhile, the hundred of them were getting soaked in the ponderous, warmly uncomfortable rain. "Right, I'll see you soon," he said, and Apparated, looking ruffled.

He wasn't the only one. Several people started complaining then, whining about the weather and they were getting wet and their poor pets and they were _tired_…

Hermione, Ron, and Harry formed a small huddle, keeping the owls and Crookshanks (now several shades darker, skinny, and in a monumentally horrible mood) to the inside. "What d'you reckon about the barrier?" Ron asked.

"Someone fiddled with it, maybe? They've done it before," Harry said. "Remember Dobby."

"But that was only for a minute, and this has been going on for at least a quarter of an hour," said Hermione. "I've read about blockers—they're hard to hold up for any longer than maybe five minutes."

Ron and Harry gave her disparaging looks. "You read too much," Harry said.

"Hey, wait," Ron said suddenly. "I know what happened. The train got hijacked by a crew of rogue house-elves and they're holding the barrier as revenge for their enslavement. Hermione, this is right up your alley."

Hermione stamped her foot. "Oh, shut up, with our luck it _is_, poor things, and they'd deserve a bit of fun. Besides that it's impossible, but whatever you say."

"Either that or the platform's been taken over by little green men from Mars," Harry said musingly. "Which would you rather take, a horde of house-elves or a bunch of laser-weilding Martians?"

"Knowing you, Hermione, you'd start up a campaign for Martian rights on the spot," Ron said. "I'll take the elves. What are lasers?"

Harry started explaining Star Wars. In that time, three someones showed up—the other two Gryffindor fifth-year girls…and Lizzie Thomas.

"Hermione! What's going on?" Lavender asked in a high, shrill voice. Then she saw Seamus and Parvati picked up smoothly where her friend had deserted. "Why is everyone crowding around? Especially in the rain. Hi, Harry, Ron. Have you met Lizzie?"

Lizzie was pulled forward by one wrist. She grinned at Hermione, then smiled questioningly at Ron…and then Harry.

She froze.

Parvati had gone on talking. "This is Lizzie Thomas. Lizzie, Ron Weasley's the one with red hair and the other one's Harry Potter." She turned back to Hermione and beckoned her a little bit away. "Okay, Hermione, so what's up? Why isn't everyone on the platform yet?"

Hermione gave her a short rundown. "The barrier won't let anyone through, for no discernible reason. Ron's dad just went for help, I guess. He just Apparated."

"Oh…" Parvati looked up and then down quickly as a drop of rain hit her in the eye. Blinking hard, she leaned forward and muttered, "And, between you and me, Lizzie is annoying. To put it lightly."

"How do you mean?" Hermione asked neutrally.

Parvati shifted her shoulders uncomfortably. "She's just…sweet. Sugary. Like she's trying too hard to be nice."

"Well, she's new," said Hermione. "Give her a little time or space or whatever."

"Lavender told me you got annoyed too…and now you're defending her?"

Hermione shrugged. "Why not? Like I said. She's new. She's probably dead confused…along with all this mess." With that, she turned back to Ron and Harry and found Lizzie standing a little way off, fixing her hair as well as she could and shooting Harry little glances.

_Oh, good God. The new girl likes Harry._

About then, Mr. Weasley popped back into existence at the station. And he wasn't alone.

Several armed Ministry workers accompanied him, all wearing bright-yellow waterproof jackets that reached their knees—and rain hats of the same color. They brandished wands like swords.

"Right then, we'll cover from here," one of them said to Mr. Weasley. And, disregarding the fact that it was impossible to get through the barrier, the whole mass of them—seven or eight—trooped through the crowd and to the barrier.

And through it, too.

Hermione blinked. "That—this is getting really weird—"

"Yeah, who cares?" Ron asked. "We're used to mayhem. We're just getting it a bit early, is all…"

Which made sense as a view but wasn't what Hermione wanted to hear.

Harry asked in an undertone, "Did you see them doing anything?"

"No—just holding their wands," Hermione said back. Then she understood. "_Oh—_but Harry, it might be dangerous!"  
"And?"

There was no response for that. Harry got out his wand and hurried around the mass of kids and to the barrier.

He went through.

"Ron—come on!"

"What—where's Harry?"  
Hermione said, "He's just gone through—he figured that the Ministry wasn't doing anything except holding their wands. Come on!"

He looked ready to protest. "Yeah, but—our stuff—Pig—"

"Leave him. Crookshanks will guard it. Won't you?" she asked her cat, who was looking more draggled by the minute and exceedingly upset. At the attention, though, he straightened, stared up at Hermione, and then made a sound like a tractor revving up, which might have been his interpretation of a purr. It was good enough for Hermione, who hugged him once and then hurried after Ron.

One foot away from the barrier, though, the upper half of Mr. Weasley popped out, and she realized how very odd it must be to see someone walking through a brick wall. Someone sticking half out of it looked completely bizarre.

He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, "ALL OF YOU, TAKE OUT YOUR WANDS AND GET IN HERE WITH YOUR LUGGAGE! WE NEED HELP!"

_Must be bad if they need help from a bunch of kids, _Hermione managed to think as she ran back to her cart, picked up Crookshanks (who clung to her bag and refused to move), and maneuvered into the flow of students and carts and confused-looking, terrified first years. Ron managed both his and Harry's carts, helped by Dean, who'd just arrived and looked entirely bewildered.

The first-years weren't really allowed to stop and get scared. They were just propelled to the barrier and then through, holding their wands in one hand and pushing carts with the other.

The platform was in total anarchy. A good three-quarters of the over-fourth kids stopped their carts immediately, pushed up their sleeves, and started into the knot of wizards—who were under attack by a huge swarm of something small and blue—

"Birds?" Ron asked, straight into Hermione's ear. "I can't really see—"

Feeling a bubble of laughter starting, she yelled back, "Pixies! They're Cornish pixies! Like Lockhart—"

She and Ron hurried to leave their trunks by a wall and raced into the fray. "Just freeze them for now," roared Mr. Weasley to them and everyone else. "Tell the first-years to get out of the way!"

The firsties didn't need to be told. Clueless, frightened, and soaked, they huddled together in the rain and watched the swarm of electric-blue tiny people pelting the older wizards with acorns and rocks and generally trying to wreak as much havoc as they could.

Everything was confused. No one had a single idea of what to do.

At least, until someone came storming through the barrier, took one look at the melee, took a huge breath, and roared, "CUT IT OUT, ALL OF YOU!"

Every single solitary person froze—including the pixies. The only sound was the rain hitting the bricks and the good old Hogwarts Express, steaming and scarlet and familiar.

"All right," the person yelled, "clear off, pixies, back to Cornwall with you. They can handle you there."

Immediately—as in, that second—the pixies were gone. They'd just disappeared, and the rain suddenly splashed loudly into the space where they'd been.

Somehow it was much easier to see, and Hermione realized for the first time exactly how many creatures there had been. She looked at her watch—nearly eleven.

Mr. Weasley hurried over to the person who'd ridded them of the pixies and started talking to him, her, or it in a low voice. One of the Ministry members set off at a run to the front of the train and spoke to the conductor, then came back and shouted, "The train's still leaving on schedule; you'll want to start loading up!"

Hermione looked at her watch again. "Harry—Ron—it's five minutes to eleven. Where's Mr. Weasley?"

A number of redheads separated themselves from the crowds and ran to him, though, pinpointing him. Harry, Hermione, and Ron raced up as well. "Ah, good," he said, glancing at them. "Professor O'Malley, these are the Weasleys—Fred, George, Ron, Ginny—this is Hermione Granger and Harry Potter. All, meet Professor O'Malley, the new Defense teacher."

Professor O'Malley was much shorter than Hermione had thought at first. "Greetings to all," she—the voice was definitely female, now noticeable because she wasn't screaming her head off—said, a bit hoarsely, which was understandable. "I'd better be off now. See you at Hogwarts!"

Mr. Weasley went through a more downplayed Mrs. Weasley for the farewells. He shook hands all around, renewed his wife's warnings to his sons, and hugged Ginny once. Then he sent them off.

They only had two minutes now, time spent mostly in pulling carts across to the one empty car—the last one—and pulling trunks aboard. Crookshanks, being smart enough to stay out of the way, remained clawed to Hermione's bag and endured the rain.

Finally—somehow—all the trunks were stored in various compartments and they distributed themselves over the others. Fred and George left after a little bit, and Ginny did too, leaving Harry, Ron, and Hermione by themselves.

"The only thing I want to know," Hermione started as the train began to move and they all waved one last time to Mr. Weasley out the window, "is where the pixies came from."

Ron answered. "Someone booby-trapped the train, probably."

"But why?"

Harry shook his head at Ron. "No, I don't think so—did anyone actually figure out what happened to Lockhart's pixies?"

"They probably went with him," Hermione said slowly, "to St. Mungo's—"

"Well, here's my guess," said Harry. "The pixies escaped again and holed up somewhere in the forest, then managed to get on the train somehow and have been waiting around to scare someone."

She replied, "Maybe—but how'd they get on? And nobody's said anything about the blocked gate yet—"

"Do pixies have magic?" he asked shrewdly. "We know they're strong—could they have held it shut somehow?"

Hermione opened her mouth, thought about it, and then said, "That might—it's a possibility."

Ron said, "I still think a bunch of house-elves showed up and—"

"Ron, shut up."

Surprisingly, he did.

Lavender appeared at the end of the car and made her way down to them, with Lizzie in tow. "Hi, guys! I can't stay long—there's a prefects meeting in the first car, did you know?--but, well, Parvati's with her sister and so could Lizzie sit with you?"

Just then it occurred to Hermione that she'd forgotten completely about prefects. "You're a prefect, Lavender?" she asked, trying hard to keep her tone light.

"Well yeah," Lavender answered, smiling. "I'd—oh, but you're—you should be, Hermione, you really should have been," she continued, a bit vaguely. "Sorry. Bye, Lizzie!"

She disappeared and Hermione, seething, didn't notice Lizzie sitting down next to her, very slowly and a bit shyly.

_Third year. Third year and second year. That's all, _Hermione thought, realizing it angrily. _Two bouts of rulebreaking that ultimately saved the school_ _and they give the prefect badge to Lavender. Some preppy, fluff-headed idiot._

Meanwhile, the compartment sat in uncomfortable silence. Lizzie was as out-of-place as could be, and furthermore she knew it.

Finally, she stood up and just said, "Excuse me." And hurried away.

They breathed again. "Shy, you think?" Ron muttered.

"Just a bit," Harry returned.

Hermione didn't say anything.

"Erm…Hermione? What's up?" Ron asked.

She said quietly, "There's no justice in the world."

"Huh?" They were both staring at her.

"Well, think about it," she said. "I'm not a prefect, and I bet it's because of what happened in second and third year with the potion and going off school grounds. But all that practically saved the school. But it broke the rules…and so…"

"So Lavender's it," Harry said. "Sorry, Hermione."

"Yeah—you'll get it next year, definitely, when they realize she's an idiot," Ron said.

"Still."

There was another awkward silence and then Harry said, too brightly, "Hey, Ron, are you trying for Quidditch this year?"

As the atmosphere relaxed again, Hermione just looked out the window at the rain, listening to the Quidditch talk and thinking vaguely about finding Ginny. They needed another girl.

One who _wasn't_ Lizzie Thomas.

***

A/N: It's twice as long as my last chapter. And in my opinion, pretty okay. What think you—because that's the important thing?

Chocolate Frogs and Drooble's Best,

~Flamewing


	5. Good to be Home

A/N: Took me a while, didn't it? I'm sorry. Have fun. And happy chocolate week.

***

About an hour after the train had left Kings' Cross, the thunder stopped and the sun came out—very briefly. Barely a minute later it closed back over with clouds and another ominous rumble of thunder shook their teeth in the back compartment.

"I really am sorry for the first-years," said Harry reflectively. "We never had to deal with rain or any of the rest of it."

"Just dark and cold and being scared out of our wits," agreed Ron.

Hermione said, "Well, if there are any more like Dennis Creevey they'll all be trying to fall out and get saved by the squid."

The thunder stopped being ominous and threatening then and decided to make a nice massive clap directly over their heads. All three jumped and then laughed nervously as the downpour started anew, but this time in thin needles rather than the heavy hot drops of the morning.

"I've got a feeling kids like Dennis Creevey only show up once a decade or so," Harry said.

"Only because the rest were all dropped on their heads as small children," Ron added.

They were interrupted, mid-laughter, by a very cold voice from the corridor, "Isn't that sweet—the inseparable three sharing genuine laughter…who feels like destroying the moment?"

Malfoy. Of course.

"Last moment for a while, wouldn't you say?" said the Slytherin, glancing casually between Crabbe, Goyle, and Harry. "Especially with the events of the past June. But famous Potter can't be bothered with saving the world right now, he's too busy _laughing_ with the weasel and the Mudblood."

All three of them stood up; only Hermione had the presence of mind to take out her wand. If only she'd gotten him saying that on a magical record…that way, when it elevated to fists, only Malfoy could get in any real trouble…Just in advance, she whispered to her wand, "_Prescribus_": a Recording Charm.

"Say that again, Malfoy," Harry said sharply.

Malfoy smirked. "Why? So you can defend your pitiful little Mudblood _girl_friend—"

Hermione winced. Some idiots never learn, she reflected, as Harry and Ron both lunged at Malfoy. As an added safeguard, Hermione shot a few streams of sparks in the general directions of Crabbe and Goyle—with luck, the sparks would go into smoke, but that smoke would be thick enough to obscure their vision so Harry and Ron could give Malfoy a few good punches.

The sparks worked—twin clouds of white smoke formed around the two gorillas, while—

—the three people who could actually see were suddenly thrown rather violently apart, Ron and Harry against one side of the corridor and Malfoy against the other. Standing between them, holding a wand, was Professor O'Malley.

"Boys!" she said sharply. "What in the name of all that is good and holy is going _on?_"

Immediately Ron and Harry started speaking loudly, while Malfoy interjected his own excuses in a low, strangled whimper—he was bleeding from the nose, had a black eye, and seemed to be nursing his knuckles.

"He started it—"

"—always does—"

"They hit me first!"

"But you provoked us!"

"I didn't! I was just standing here talking!"

"You called Hermione a _Mudblood_!" Ron said furiously.

Hermione's heart skipped a beat.

Professor O'Malley whipped around and stared at her. The professor's eyes were narrow and oddly tip-tilted, glittering at her over a long nose. "Is this true, Miss Granger?"

"Yes," Hermione answered, around a lump in her throat that was there for no real reason that she could see.

"Mr. Malfoy?" the professor demanded.

Malfoy just stared at her—down at her, he'd grown several inches over the summer—and nodded exactly once.

"Right," Professor O'Malley said slowly, after scrutinizing him. "No points can be taken off, or you'd be in the negatives, sir—and so would you," she shot at Harry and Ron. "There's no excuse for that kind of discriminatory language—but there's none for fistfights either. I'll be speaking to both your Heads of Houses about this."

She gave Malfoy another look. "Better get a handkerchief, boy. Come with me." Professor O'Malley pivoted on her heel and strode away, and Malfoy followed her, giving the three of them as poisonous a look as possible—which was considerable, as a black-eyed, bloody-nosed face does have a bit more shock value than his usual ferrety sneer.

Hermione would have grinned at the thought, but it didn't seem the time to do so. With a sigh of regret, she banished the smoke clouds around Crabbe and Goyle's heads. The two of them looked entirely bemused, but saw Malfoy—she supposed—and hurried after him, not sparing them even a glance.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at each other solemnly, then filed back into the compartment and sat down. Ron, she noticed suddenly, had a bruise forming on his cheekbone, and Harry was favoring his left arm a bit.

"That—" Hermione started, but Ron interrupted.

"I said this before," he said angrily. "I'm not taking any more crap from Malfoy this year—"

Harry said, almost wearily, "Ron. Give it a rest."

Ron stared.

"What? If Voldemort's back—that's what we should be worrying about, right?" Harry explained patiently. "Malfoy can't _do _anything to anyone unless if he wants to disgrace the family name. He'd never."

After wincing at the name of the Dark Lord, Ron had actually listened. "Yeah," he said skeptically. "Remember, the last time he saw us before just now, we'd just cursed the hell out of him and his apes. He's not going to live that down easily."

Harry was about to make another argument to the Malfoy-as-a-mosquito theorem, but dropped it with a sigh.

Happily, the food cart appeared with the smiling lady behind it, who took their Galleons in exchange for piles of charmed sugar.

***

Three hours and a book later, the train pulled to a stop in the middle of an exceedingly horrible thunderstorm.

"Ah, home sweet Hogwarts," Harry said offhandedly as lightning illuminated the sky, silhouetting the mountains in sharp relief.

"Right—let's just try not to drown before we get to the castle, shall we?" Hermione ventured, shivering slightly as the three of them jumped off the train and were immediately drenched. Rain came down in sheets of sharp, cold, needle-like drops that stung, especially when there was a gust of wind behind them.

As quickly as they could, they forced their way through the milling crowd of students and managed to find the carriages. The three claimed one immediately, and shortly were joined by Neville. After that, the carriage door slammed shut, and two minutes later it started moving towards the castle.

When it deposited them at the steps, it was to find a mass of people just standing there, along the steps and at the doors, and not going in. No one cared that they were quickly getting saturated. "Look!" Ron said, and pointed up at the top, next to one of the doors. "Something's going on—"

"No, really?" Harry muttered, bouncing on his toes so he could see over the crowds. "Looks like a fight, or something—not a duel, a fistfight—but I can't tell who—"

"Well, we're at school, we should be allowed to do magic!" Hermione burst out. Without checking to see if they were coming, she started worming through gaps in the press, searching for her wand and avoiding all the cats that were winding around various ankles. The owls, smart creatures, had flown off to the Owlery (carefully, to avoid getting rain in their nostrils), and the toads had all managed to hop off somewhere (Neville had lost Trevor already and was in a state of resigned concern for his toad's safety), which left the cats to be bedraggled and mad enough to spit. Most of them, actually, did.

After nearly a minute of excusing herself to people as she slid by them, wand in hand, she reached the front of the tumult and found the source of the problem. As well as McGonagall standing over the problem, holding two sixth-years, a Gryffindor and a Slytherin, apart. Both boys had their hands balled into fists and were giving each other looks of pure, undiluted hatred.

Of course, this happened every other day in Hogwarts. Hermione, a bit disappointed—and really starting to be hungry; it seemed the enchanted sweets on the train had been ages ago—waited by the door as McGonagall hauled the two offending students off and the crowd flooded through the doors. When she spotted Harry and Ron, near the end, she slipped into the queue and muttered to them, "It wasn't anything important—a Slytherin and a Gryffindor got into a fight."

"They held us up for _that_?" Ron spat irritatedly. "I'm starving!"

"And they intentionally got at each other's throats, just to extend your discomfort," said Hermione, in about the same tone. "The universe is against you, what can we say?"

"Shut it, would you?" Harry implored as they stepped—finally—out of the cold rain and into a slightly warmer and much dryer entrance hall. The cats had decided to congregate there, and lay in heaps of sodden fur next to the walls. Hermione found Crookshanks—who looked rather like a drowned weasel, come to think of it, but uglier—but when he hissed at her for looking at him, she hurried after Harry and Ron into the Great Hall.

Hundreds of rain-drenched students swarmed around the tables, robes steaming in the warm, bright air. Forcing their way through the mass of bodies, Harry, Ron, and Hermione managed—eventually—to fight their way to the Gryffindor table, where they claimed seats along the middle section and were quickly joined by hordes of jabbering wizards.

Professor Dumbledore stood after a few minutes and twinkled a smile around at everyone; silence fell in a shroud. He sat down again and looked towards the side door of the Great Hall, which opened at that moment and admitted a long line of small, scared-looking first-years.

"Ever notice that they seem littler every year?" Ron muttered suddenly into Hermione's ear. She stiffened, then relaxed and nodded.

"Not really—but you're right, it's odd—"

Suddenly, Professor McGonagall hurried from the side chamber, up to the high table, and bent to whisper something to Professor Dumbledore. His expression remained calm as he turned and whispered back; the Transfiguration Professor nodded and marched back to the line of first-years, to the place where Professor Flitwick had just placed the stool and the Sorting Hat.

The teachers at the high table all craned their necks and leaned around each other, staring curiously at Dumbledore. The headmaster shook his head very slightly, and they all settled back into their seats.

"What was that about?" Harry asked, in a barely-audible murmur. Hermione shook her head and she saw Ron shrug a little. "Looked serious—"

Interrupting him, the Hat burst into song.

__

"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,

But don't judge on what you see,

I'll eat myself if you can find

A smarter hat than me.

You can keep your bowlers black,

Your top hats sleek and tall,

For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat

and I can cap them all…"

The three simultaneously straightened in their chairs. Harry and Ron exchanged puzzled looks. "But this is the song from…" Ron started to say.

"Maybe the Hat had writer's block?" Harry suggested.

Ron looked even more confused. "What's writer's block?"

Harry shook his head. "Never mind."

"The Hat has four songs, actually," Hermione muttered. "It alternates through them over a cycle." At Ron's rather frightened look, she added, "It's in _A History of Magic_. You don't actually read the texts, do you?"

"Not religiously like _some _people."

Hermione gave Ron her best glare, which only intensified at a shiver going down her spine when he smiled teasingly.

The Hat's song ended; Hermione saw Fred mouthing the lines of the last verse in a strange sort of lip-synching routine.

Professor McGonagall stepped forward and shot a severe look at all the first-years—if possible, they shrank away even more—before saying, "I will call your names. When your name is called, you will put on the Hat and sit on the stool to be sorted."

Several first-years nodded fervently, and one said loudly, "Yes, _ma'am!_"

Snickering broke out all over the Hall like a sudden outburst of small fires. They died quickly, though, and McGonagall called, "Adams, Jeffrey!"

One of the taller boys was pushed forward by a friend. He hurried to the stool, pulled the hat over his ears, and waited for about ten seconds while the Hat deliberated and then yelled, "RAVENCLAW!"

Some of the Ravenclaws looked a bit dubious as Jeffrey replaced the Hat on the stool and promptly tripped over his own feet, then raced to his designated table with a cherry-red face.

Professor McGonagall stared after him, lips twitching. "I trust you're all right, Jeffrey?" she asked finally.

The first-year nodded furiously, looking more and more like his head was about to explode.

"Good. Bird, Samantha!"

A tiny girl with dusty brown braids hurried up to the stool and sat squirming for nearly a minute, then slumped in relief as the Hat roared, "GRYFFINDOR!"  
Hermione applauded loudly with the rest of her House, giving the small girl a grin as Samantha sat down a few seats away.

"Bradley, Evan!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Brown, Kylie!"

"RAVENCLAW!"

"Oh, no," Lavender said sadly. "That's my little sister—she so wanted to be in Gryffindor…"

Parvati replied soothingly, "It'll be all right. I'll tell Padma to look out for her."

Looking at the tall blond girl who'd just claimed a seat next to Jeffrey Adams at the Ravenclaw table, Hermione had a feeling that Kylie wouldn't need that much looking after.

"Carson, Daniel!"

"SLYTHERIN!"

And so it went.

By the time the D's passed, the three of them had, for the most part, stopped paying attention as firstie after firstie filed up to the stool, jammed the Hat on their heads, and left, looking entirely embarrassed.

"Gregory, Hans!"

"Get a move on, already," Ron muttered. "I'm hungry."

"And I feel like I've just finished a five-course dinner, of course," whispered Harry, a little acerbically. "Shut up, Ron."

Ron shot Harry a black look, but stayed quiet.

Nothing interesting happened for another fifteen minutes or so. Then McGonagall called, "Thomas, Elizabeth!"

And Lizzie Thomas stepped out of line.

Hermione was bewildered for several seconds. A fifth-year among the group to be Sorted—it was amazing how she had blended in with them—

Lizzie pulled the Hat over her ears and sat for nearly half a minute. The Hat screamed, "GRYFFINDOR!" Intensely relieved—like a drowning person catching a float from the benevolent rowboat—Lizzie set the Hat down and scurried to the Gryffindor table, where she sat immediately next to Hermione.

"Hi, Hermione," she said in a breathless undertone, as the Hat sorted Jamie Underwood. "Oh my God, that's so _nerve-wracking!_ I didn't think it'd be so hard…but there's the entire school just sitting there and _looking _at you…"

Grudgingly, Hermione felt sorry for Lizzie instead of vaguely annoyed. Well, she was new, and she was genuinely trying to be friendly. "At least you got into Gryffindor."

"I _know_, I was just _praying _that I'd be in this—"

And she suddenly fell silent, and tucked her hair behind her ears, and quaveringly, nervously smiled at Harry.

_Oh—no—oh—no_…Hermione thought hopelessly, biting her lip to keep herself from bursting into giggles. Then Ron glanced at her sidelong, and she lost it.

Fortunately, the Hat had just yelled that Vickersen, Julie was a Slytherin, and so all those on the right side of the Hall were applauding thunderously, while Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs clapped politely and Gryffindors shook their heads. No one heard her laughing, and by the time the noise had died down she'd managed to compose herself.

Five minutes later, after the Sorting Hat placed Madeline Ziemba into Hufflepuff, Professor Flitwick rose and quietly carried the stool and Hat back to the side chamber.

Dumbledore stood and looked around at everyone, smiling again. "Welcome to the beginning of another year! We have a new addition to the staff—Professor Miranda O'Malley, our new Defense teacher. We do go through them rather quickly, it seems…"

He paused as the applause from the students took over. 

"Hang on…" Harry muttered under the cover of the noise. "Snape's missing!"

Hermione ran her eyes along the staff table, and for the first time realized that the greasy Potions teacher was actually gone. "I don't believe it," she said blankly.

Ron stared at Snape's empty seat with something approaching reverence. "We're saved," he said in a hushed voice. The moment was spoiled by Harry giving him a good hard shove on the back.

As soon as the applause died, Dumbledore went on, "I also regret to inform you that our much-loved Potions teacher, Professor Snape—"

He had the grace to ignore the loud, obvious snort from the general direction of everywhere-besides-the-Slytherin-table.

"—is away on personal business for several months," the Headmaster went on smoothly, as if nothing had happened. "He should be back by Christmas."

Here the Slytherin table burst into cheers.

"God, bloody wonderful Christmas present," Ron whispered.

"As his stand-in," Dumbledore continued loudly, "as I'm sure no one could fully replace him—"

Down the table, Hermione saw Fred nodding solemnly as George wiped away a tear, sniffling exaggeratedly.

"—we have Professor Arabella Figg, who at the time is caring for her considerably aged mother, who lives in Surrey. Until she returns, Potions classes will be canceled."

"Oh, no, not _that!_" several people said, gasping in mock-horror.

Hermione suddenly felt quite fed up with those people. "But—we need all the learning we can get—O.W.L.s are this year and we haven't done half the things on the practice papers—"

"Hermione," Ron said quietly, "do us a favor and shut up."

She stared at him with her mouth open for several seconds, ready to tell him off, then shut her mouth and glared at her plate, wishing her vocabulary would stop disappearing at the times when she most needed it.

"However," Dumbledore went on, "when Professor Figg does appear, classes will be held twice a week until the number missed is made up. She will make sure you don't fall behind."

Hermione, looking around, decided that she was the only person happy about this.

"I believe that's everything of importance—dig in!" Dumbledore finished, finally, smiling benevolently.

In less than a second, the tables were laden with food and the air was laden with scents. For perhaps a minute all that was said was "Pass that," and "Hand me the salt, please?"

"So what about it?" Ron asked, once he'd filled a plate with a three-inch pile of various types of food. "Snape being off—what business?"

Harry shook his head, lips pressed together in a way that didn't so much say "I don't know" as "I'll tell you later."

To cover the silence, Hermione said, "He might actually have a family—you know, a mother and a father. Perhaps they're ill."

"Snape with a mother? Somehow I always envisioned him as taking shape from one of the devil's nastier nightmares," said Ron rather meditatively.

Hermione, Harry, Ginny (sitting with the girls of her year a few seats down), Dean, and Seamus snorted in unison.

After the last bit of dessert had melted off the plates, two hours later, and after Dumbledore warned the new students about staying out of the Forbidden Forest on pain of detention, the school trundled off up to their Houses, moving more slowly than normal. Harry, Ron, and Hermione claimed three chairs around a table at Harry's look.

"What's up?" Ron asked quietly, watching the other students file by on their way to the dormitories. "I'm tired, make it quick…"

Harry interrupted, "Snape's business, the reason he's not here now—he's spying."

"What—" Hermione started to ask, then it dawned. "Oh! He's pretending he's still loyal to You-Know—"

"Call him his name," Harry said through gritted teeth.

"Yes sir," she replied irritably. "Fine. Snape is pretending he's still a Death Eater, but he's really collecting information for our side."

Harry added, "Dumbledore asked him to."

Ron looked stunned for a second, eyebrows raised so high they disappeared into his hair. "Didn't think he'd—no, scratch that. I knew he'd probably pull something like that—Dumbledore, and Snape too." He stood and stretched. "That's it?"

"Yeah," Harry said.

"Okay—I'm off to bed then."

"Same here."

"Goodnight."

"You too."

About two minutes later, the Gryffindor common room was completely empty, except for Hermione. She looked around and grinned.

"Good to be home," she said softly, and went up the stairs to her dorm.

***

A/N: Done. After all too long. Hope you liked it.


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